Complete Works of Fyodor Dostoyevsky (588 page)

“Good God, how unjust I’ve been to you!” he cried in deep distress.  “How abominably I’ve misjudged you in my suspiciousness. . . .  Forgive me, Arkady Makarovitch!”

I suddenly jumped up, tried to say something to him, stood facing him, but said nothing, and ran out of the room and out of the flat.  I dragged myself home on foot, and don’t know how I got there.  I threw myself on the bed in the dark, buried my face in the pillow and thought and thought.  At such moments orderly and consecutive thought is never possible; my brain and imagination seemed torn to shreds, and I remember I began dreaming about something utterly irrelevant, I don’t know what.  My grief and trouble came back to my mind suddenly with an ache of anguish, and I wrung my hands again and exclaimed:  “Liza, Liza!” and began crying again.  I don’t remember how I fell asleep, but I slept sweetly and soundly.

CHAPTER VII

1

I waked up at eight o’clock in the morning, instantly locked my door, sat down by the window and began thinking.  So I sat till ten o’clock.  The servant knocked at my door twice, but I sent her away.  At last at eleven o’clock there was a knock again.  I was just going to shout to the servant again, but it was Liza.  The servant came in with her, brought me in some coffee, and prepared to light the stove.  It was impossible to get rid of the servant, and all the time Fekla was arranging the wood, and blowing up the fire, I strode up and down my little room, not beginning to talk to Liza, and even trying not to look at her.  The servant, as though on purpose, was inexpressibly slow in her movements as servants always are when they notice they are preventing people from talking.  Liza sat on the chair by the window and watched me.

“Your coffee will be cold,” she said suddenly.

I looked at her: not a trace of embarrassment, perfect tranquillity, and even a smile on her lips.

“Such are women,” I thought, and could not help shrugging my shoulders.  At last the servant had finished lighting the stove and was about to tidy the room, but I turned her out angrily, and at last locked the door.

“Tell me, please, why have you locked the door again?” Liza asked.

I stood before her.

“Liza, I never could have imagined you would deceive me like this!” I exclaimed suddenly, though I had never thought of beginning like that, and instead of being moved to tears, an angry feeling which was quite unexpected stabbed me to the heart.  Liza flushed; she did not turn away, however, but still looked straight in my face.

“Wait, Liza, wait, oh how stupid I’ve been!  But was I stupid?  I had no hint of it till everything came together yesterday, and from what could I have guessed it before?  From your going to Mme. Stolbyeev’s and to that . . . Darya Onisimovna?  But I looked upon you as the sun, Liza, and how could I dream of such a thing?  Do you remember how I met you that day two months ago, at his flat, and how we walked together in the sunshine and rejoiced. . . .  Had it happened then?  Had it?”

She answered by nodding her head.

“So you were deceiving me even then!  It was not my stupidity, Liza, it was my egoism, more than stupidity, the egoism of my heart and . . . maybe my conviction of your holiness.  Oh!  I have always been convinced that you were all infinitely above me and — now this!  I had not time yesterday in one day to realize in spite of all the hints. . . .  And besides I was taken up with something very different yesterday!”

At that point I suddenly thought of Katerina Nikolaevna, and something stabbed me to the heart like a pin, and I flushed crimson.  It was natural that I could not be kind at that moment.

“But what are you justifying yourself for?  You seem to be in a hurry to defend yourself, Arkady, what for?” Liza asked softly and gently, though her voice was firm and confident.

“What for?  What am I to do now? if it were nothing but that question!  And you ask what for?  I don’t know how to act!  I don’t know how brothers do act in such cases. . . .  I know they go with pistols in their hands and force them to marry. . . .  I will behave as a man of honour ought!  Only I don’t know how a man of honour ought to behave. . . .  Why?  Because we are not gentlefolk, and he’s a prince and has to think of his career; he won’t listen to honest people like us.  We are not even brother and sister, but nondescript illegitimate children of a house-serf without a surname; and princes don’t marry house-serfs.  Oh, it’s nauseating!  And what’s more, you sit now and wonder at me.”

“I believe that you are very much distressed,” said Liza flushing again, “but you are in too great a hurry, and are distressing yourself.”

“Too great a hurry?  Why, do you think I’ve not been slow enough!  Is it for you, Liza, to say that to me?” I cried, completely carried away by indignation at last.  “And what shame I’ve endured, and how that prince must despise me!  It’s all clear to me now, and I can see it all like a picture: he quite imagined that I had guessed long ago what his relation was to you, but that I held my tongue or even turned up my nose while I bragged of ‘my honour’ — that’s what he may well have thought of me!  And that I have been taking his money for my sister, for my sister’s shame!  It was that he loathed so, and I think he was quite right, too; to have every day to welcome a scoundrel because he was her brother, and then to talk of honour . . . it would turn any heart to stone, even his!  And you allowed it all, you did not warn me!  He despised me so utterly that he talked of me to Stebelkov, and told me yesterday that he longed to get rid of us both, Versilov and me.  And Stebelkov too!  ‘Anna Andreyevna is as much your sister as Lizaveta Makarovna,’ and then he shouted after me, ‘My money’s better than his.’  And I, I insolently lolled on HIS sofa, and forced myself on his acquaintances as though I were an equal, damn them!  And you allowed all that!  Most likely Darzan knows by now, judging, at least, by his tone yesterday evening. . . .  Everyone, everyone knew it except me!”

“No one knows anything, he has not told any one of his acquaintances, and he COULD NOT,” Liza added.  “And about Stebelkov, all I know is that Stebelkov is worrying him, and that it could only have been a guess on Stebelkov’s part anyway. . . . I have talked to him about you several times, and he fully believed me that you know nothing, and I can’t understand how this happened yesterday.”

“Oh, I paid him all I owed him yesterday, anyway, and that’s a load off my heart!  Liza, does mother know?  Of course she does; why, yesterday she stood up for you against me.  Oh, Liza!  Is it possible that in your heart of hearts you think yourself absolutely right, that you really don’t blame yourself in the least?  I don’t know how these things are considered nowadays, and what are your ideas, I mean as regards me, your mother, your brother, your father. . . .  Does Versilov know?”

“Mother has told him nothing; he does not ask questions, most likely he does not want to ask.”

“He knows, but does not want to know, that’s it, it’s like him!  Well, you may laugh at a brother, a stupid brother, when he talks of pistols, but your mother!  Surely you must have thought, Liza, that it’s a reproach to mother?  I have been tortured by that idea all night; mother’s first thought now will be: ‘it’s because I did wrong, and the daughter takes after the mother!’”

“Oh, what a cruel and spiteful thing to say!” cried Liza, while the tears gushed from her eyes; she got up and walked rapidly towards the door.

“Stay, stay!”  I caught her in my arms, made her sit down again, and sat down beside her, still keeping my arm round her.

“I thought it would be like this when I came here, and that you would insist on my blaming myself.  Very well, I do blame myself.  It was only through pride I was silent just now, and did not say so, I am much sorrier for you and mother than I am for myself. . . .”

She could not go on, and suddenly began crying bitterly.

“Don’t, Liza, you mustn’t, I don’t want anything.  I can’t judge you.  Liza, what does mother say?  Tell me, has she known long?”

“I believe she has; but I only told her a little while ago, when THIS happened,” she said softly, dropping her eyes.

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘bear it,’” Liza said still more softly.

“Ah, Liza, yes, ‘bear it!’  Don’t do anything to yourself, God keep you!”

“I am not going to,” she answered firmly, and she raised her eyes and looked at me.  “Don’t be afraid,” she added, “it’s not at all like that.”

“Liza, darling, all I can see is that I know nothing about it, but I’ve only found out now how much I love you.  There’s only one thing I can’t understand, Liza; it’s all clear to me, but there’s one thing I can’t understand at all: what made you love him?  How could you love a man like that?  That’s the question.”

“And I suppose you’ve been worrying yourself all night about that too?” said Liza, with a gentle smile.

“Stay, Liza, that’s a stupid question, and you are laughing; laugh away, but one can’t help being surprised, you know; you and HE, you are such opposite extremes!  I have studied him: he’s gloomy, suspicious; perhaps he is very good-hearted, he may be, but on the other hand, he is above all extremely inclined to see evil in everything (though in that he is exactly like me).  He has a passionate appreciation of what’s noble, that I admit, but I fancy it’s only in his ideal.  Oh, he is apt to feel remorse, he has been all his life continually cursing himself, and repenting, but he will never reform; that’s like me, too, perhaps.  Thousands of prejudices and false ideas and no real ideas at all.  He is always striving after something heroic and spoiling it all over trifles.  Forgive me, Liza, I’m a fool though; I say this and wound you and I know it; I understand it. . . .”

“It would be a true portrait,” smiled Liza, “but you are too bitter against him on my account, and that’s why nothing you say is true.  From the very beginning he was distrustful with you, and you could not see him as he is, but with me, even at Luga. . . .  He has had no eyes for anyone but me, ever since those days at Luga.  Yes, he is suspicious and morbid, and but for me he would have gone out of his mind; and if he gives me up, he will go out of his mind, or shoot himself.  I believe he has realized that and knows it,” Liza added dreamily as though to herself.  “Yes, he is weak continually, but such weak people are capable at times of acting very strongly. . . .  How strangely you talked about a pistol, Arkady; nothing of that sort is wanted and I know what will happen. It’s not my going after him, it’s his coming after me.  Mother cries and says that if I marry him I shall be unhappy, that he will cease to love me.  I don’t believe that; unhappy, perhaps, I shall be, but he won’t cease to love me.  That’s not why I have refused my consent all along, it’s for another reason.  For the last two months I’ve refused, but to-day I told him ‘yes, I will marry you.’  Arkasha, do you know yesterday” (her eyes shone and she threw her arms round my neck), “he went to Anna Andreyevna’s and told her with absolute frankness that he could not love her . . .?  Yes, he had a complete explanation with her, and that idea’s at an end!  He had nothing to do with the project.  It was all Prince Nikolay Ivanovitch’s notion, and it was pressed upon him by those tormentors, Stebelkov and some one else. . . .  And today for that I’ve said ‘YES.’  Dear Arkady, he is very anxious to see you, and don’t be offended because of what happened yesterday: he’s not quite well this morning, and will be at home all day.  He’s really unwell, Arkady; don’t think it’s an excuse.  He has sent me on purpose, and told me to say that he ‘needs’ you, that he has a great deal he must tell you, and that it would be awkward to say it here, in your lodging.  Well, good-bye! Oh, Arkady, I am ashamed to say it, as I was coming here I was awfully afraid that you would not love me any more.  I kept crossing myself on the way, and you’ve been so good and kind!  I shall never forget it!  I am going to mother.  And you try and like him a little, won’t you?”

I embraced her warmly, and told her:

“I believe, Liza, you’re a strong character.  And I believe that it’s not you who are going after him, but he who is going after you, only . . .”

“Only, what made you love him? ‘that’s the question!’” Liza put in with her old mischievous laugh, pronouncing the words exactly as I had done “that’s the question!”  And as she said it she lifted her forefinger exactly as I do.  We kissed at parting, but when she had gone my heart began to ache again.

2

I note merely for myself there were moments after Liza had gone when a perfect host of the most unexpected ideas rushed into my mind, and I was actually quite pleased with them.

“Well, why should I bother,” I thought; “what is it to me?  It’s the same with every one or nearly so.  What of it if it has happened to Liza?  Am I bound to save the honour of the family?”

I mention all these details to show how far I was from a sound understanding of the difference between good and evil.  It was only feeling saved me: I knew that Liza was unhappy, that mother was unhappy, and I knew this by my feeling when I thought of them, and so I felt that what had happened must be wrong.

Now I may mention beforehand that from that day, right up to the catastrophe of my illness, events followed one another with such rapidity that recalling them now I feel surprised myself that I was able to stand up against them, crushing as they were.  They clouded my mind, and even my feelings, and if in the end I had been overwhelmed by them, and had committed a crime (I was within an ace of it), the jury might well have acquitted me.  But I will try to describe it all in the exact order of events, though I forewarn the reader that there was little order in my thoughts at that time.  Events came rushing on me like the wind, and my thoughts whirled before them like the dead leaves in autumn.  Since I was entirely made up of other people’s ideas, where could I find principles of my own when they were needed to form independent decisions?  I had no guide at all.

I decided to go to see Prince Sergay that evening, that we might be perfectly free to talk things over, and he would be at home till evening.  But when it was getting dark I received again a note by post, a note from Stebelkov; it consisted of three lines, containing an urgent and most persuasive request that I would call on him next morning at eleven o’clock on “most important business, and you will see for yourself that it is business.”  Thinking it over I resolved to be guided by circumstances, as there was plenty of time to decide before to-morrow.